


Catharsis

by Janekfan



Series: TMA prompt fics [11]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hugs, Kidnapping, Martin is a safe place, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fill, Sleep, Tears, Touch-Starved, touch averse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Prompt: helen just dumped jon in his office when she rescued him from the circus. maybe when he got back he just took a little while to have a good cry but martin found him in the middle of it and was like "where've you been whats wrong holy shit" and jons just like "hnngh... martin..."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA prompt fics [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082912
Comments: 50
Kudos: 408





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it! :D

"I'll be seeing you, Archivist." In a voice so saccharine sweet in such juxtaposition to how empty and ashamed Jon felt twisted up on the floor where she'd dropped him. He tried to focus, to see her, where she was, or was not but she had slipped through her yellow door in a burst of static before he truly understood where he was. It was when his office began to coalesce around him that the tears came, stinging, burning, the idea that he might just be safe here for even a moment catching on the ragged attempt at a breath. Two. Three. Swift. Hyperventilating. No hands, no mannequins, no, no, no stripping, stroking, smoothing, _touching_. 

But he must be silent. Silent if he's to be able to hide in this small bit of sanctuary and he muffled himself, calling upon years of practice crying in the dark alone, and dragged himself under his desk for another degree of separation against the world and its cruelty. Nevermind that he brought this upon himself, he intended to hide from it until the hunger and thirst clawing at his stomach, his throat, forced him from his hiding place. Leaning against the cool wall, Jon pressed a flushed cheek against it, wrapping his arms around his knees and collapsing inwards like a dying star. 

No one came for him. 

And while he knew he'd burned bridges and sullied relationships with his paranoid investigating the knowing of it ached in his chest, taking up so much room with its constant agony that there was nothing left for anything else and Jon didn't think he'd ever felt more alone in his entire life. It was silly of him to think anyone would look for him and that did nothing to sooth the hurt bubbling up at the thought of being so easy to abandon, so easy to forget. He cried. He cried and cried, nigh hysterical and so, so quietly because his assistants weren't that far away and he couldn’t allow them to see him like this. There wasn't much left of him at the moment and he wouldn't survive Melanie’s cold indifference or Tim's hot anger. 

Had his disappearance even been noticed? 

The handle of his door squeaked and he clapped trembling hands over his mouth, eyes wide and searching in the dim. Had they found him? Come to take him away again? 

Quiet. Be quiet. Like a mouse. Like you did when you were small. 

Whatever, whoever it was hummed in a very familiar way, as if they'd glanced around the room and found it wanting. That was fine. He was always found wanting. He'd been so awful to everyone that it was no wonder he was found wanting. They dropped something onto the desk’s surface, and the toes of Martin’s trainers were inches away from Jon's hiding place. He held his breath, closed his eyes tight.

Wished to be found. 

Wished to be left alone. 

Why wasn’t he leaving? 

A whimper escaped, small. Barely there. But it was enough. Martin’s shoes shifted, stepped back.

“I’ve got a, well I’ve got a mug! But it will hurt!” Jon pressed back, curled up, just as Martin’s body blocked the minimal light to his hiding place. It took a few seconds for his face to come into focus. 

“Don’t!” Jon flinched from his hand, shouting, the thought of being touched made him want to throw up, made him want to disappear, made him want to run. “Don’t. P’please.” 

Martin didn’t know if he truly expected an intruder but he definitely didn’t expect to find Jon cowering away from him, rail thin, expression haunted, and dressed in clothes two sizes too large on him. In a cracked voice he shouted at him when he reached out and in the dim of his hiding place he could make out his wide, terrified eyes, lined with dark shadows and suspiciously wet. 

“Alright, alright, Jon.” Martin sat cross legged on the floor instead to watch him ease the smallest amount and drop his forehead to the folded arms balanced on knobby knees with a shaky exhale. “So, haven’t seen you in a while.” His shoulders hitched in a damp laugh, hitched further when he began sobbing. “ _Oh_ , oh, Jon.” 

“I, I, I--” he was gasping for air, crying too hard to speak, and Martin risked shifting just a little bit forward and talking in a low voice, just for them under the desk.

“Okay, okay. Elias didn’t tell us where you’d gone.” At that, Jon whipped his head to face him, confusion warring with the panic. 

“W’what?” 

“No one knew where you were.” Big tears slipped down his cheeks and he looked so betrayed, so small, that Martin wanted to wrap him up and protect him from all the awful things he knew were coming.

“I was. The Circus.” He scrubbed his face angrily with his forearm. “Took me. They _took_ me.” He ground the heels of both hands into his eyes as if he could physically stop himself from crying. “They.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it, Jon.” 

“I wasn’t. I didn’t m’mean to.” His bottom lip was trembling, his words thready. “I’m s’sorry. I didn’t want, want.” 

“This wasn’t your fault. Of course you didn’t want to be kidnapped off the street.” But he knew how this could look, especially for Tim with his history. The rest of the staff were likely to accuse Jon of pulling some sort of trick or long con. Melanie particularly hadn’t been shy in sharing exactly what she thought of the man weeping only a meter in front of him, hiding under his desk. 

“Kept t’touching--” he choked himself off and Martin worried he was going to be sick but he just swallowed reflexively, sucking down great gulps of air, horrified and whispery. “Wouldn’t stop.” 

“Jon, you’ve got to breathe. Slowly, okay?” He was going to pass out if he didn’t and Martin wasn’t altogether sure that wouldn’t be a bad thing, caught as he was between extremes, exhausted and strung out. Martin wanted to hold him, let him feel safe if he even could anymore, let him rest for a few minutes without fear of being hunted, chased, cut, burned, _kidnapped_. 

“I’m coming _apart_. It’s too, it’s too _heavy_ , Martin. I, I, I can’t breathe for the weight of it.” Syllables tripped over each other, manic, frantic, they tumbled from his mouth like a waterfall. “I know, I, I’ve been. Cagey? For lack of a b’better term? No, no, paranoid. I know. It’s. I’ve been, but things keep coming after me. They want to hurt me--have hurt me! And, and, and I. Trust. I don’t trust anyone. Not really. _Not really_. I can’t? I don’t. I don’t know _how_.” Thin, quaking fingers ran over innumerable scars unconsciously, tracing them in constellations. “I’m. I’m just so s’sorry and I can’t. I can’t fix it.” He grit his teeth, smothering himself before hanging his head. “I’m so tired, Martin.”

“I can help with that.” 

Jon didn’t expect much after his outpouring. He hadn’t meant to say all that, to burden Martin with even more awful things on top of what they’d already experienced, but to his surprise he offered nothing but help and Jon wasn’t altogether sure why he was humoring him. Jon didn’t want to leave the office. He didn’t want anyone else to see him like this. He didn’t think he could take the inevitable and scathing comments. Not right now. Not yet.

“We can make that work.” He smiled, something small and sweet and open, shrugging out of his jumper and holding it out, still keeping his distance. His kindness was a balm, one that he thought might hold the disparate pieces of himself together long enough for him to scrape up the will to hold them together himself. “You’re cold. You’ve had a shock. A, a lot of shocks.” He raised an eyebrow, still with that same soft grin of understanding. “I’ve seen you nick them before.” Jon ducked his head, reaching out for the warm wool still holding remnants of Martin’s body heat and leaned back against the wall. It was almost like a blanket and the thick knit was well worn and pleasant on his hypersensitive skin. The weight of it soothed his frayed nerves and somehow, against all odds, Jon was dragged under a tidal wave of sleep. 

Martin stood guard and watched Jon’s heavy lids fall shut over tired eyes as he unspooled under the safety of his desk. He sank lower, sliding down deeper into the jumper until the only visible part of his face was above the scarred bridge of his nose. He’d begun dreaming of something, making small noises and speaking scraps of sentences that were devoured by the dark. Martin scrutinized him in an attempt to discern whether or not the dreams were in fact nightmares, but he seemed alright for the moment and he let himself relax. He passed the time on his phone, wondering for a fleeting moment if anyone in the office realized where he went and ultimately decided that a little time away from the anger and the blame and the helplessness was probably good for him. 

“S’a...mmn…” Jon’s face was pulled into a pained grimace, his fingers winding into the wool. “No’st, no!” Jon’s eyes flew open, flecked with unnatural green and blank with terror when he didn’t recognize or remember where he was. He fought with the cable knit swallowing up his body and tangling him up in his confusion. “No! No! No, no, no!” Panicked murmuring filled up his hiding place and he swiped frantically at his arms, trying to tear his way out of the binding constriction. His hands finally met skin but he didn’t recognize it as his own, fingers curling as he clawed dark angry marks from elbow to wrist and when Martin took hold of them in an effort to protect Jon from himself he had to exert incredible strength to keep him pinned, keep him from hurting himself. But he was so scared, bucking and wild and Martin was sure someone was going to burst in here at any moment, surprised that they hadn’t already, and demand answers to questions he couldn’t even begin to parse. 

“Jon,” Martin tried, “hey, it’s me, you’re safe, you’re here in the Archives with me. The Archives, Jon.” 

“Stop, stop, stop!” The tears were back, caught in his throat and stealing away his pleading voice and Martin hated every entity they’d ever encountered. He hated Elias, he hated whatever was happening here that they were so powerless to prevent. 

“Jon, Jon, I’m here. Hush, now, hush, shhh.” Martin tried to hide his own panic behind a calm exterior, wrapping around him when he finally wrenched himself free and swiped at him. He held Jon tight, almost too tight, crushing his arms to his sides until the fight went out of him and he went completely slack, chest heaving, short panting breaths rushing in and out beside Martin’s ear. “That’s right. Okay, okay, I’m sorry, that must have been frightening. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself, I’m so sorry it scared you.” Strung tight as a bowstring and just about ready to snap, it took long minutes before his rabbit-quick heart began to slow and Martin could feel his bones stamping themselves in rigid lines where he was pressed against him. He kept up his nonsensical chatter, smoothing back unruly tangles. 

“M’martin?” Barely an exhale as he turned his face into Martin’s neck. “Not, not. Plastic.” And while it didn’t make any sense to Martin, he let Jon have the comfort it gave him, gently loosening his grip, surprised that instead of putting as much distance between them that he could he collapsed inwards, curling into the pocket the curve of Martin’s body made and laying his ear over the rhythm beating beneath it. “Sorry…” His lips didn’t move, the apology carried on a deep, weary sigh. 

“No need to apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Martin ran a hand up and down Jon’s narrow back. He was quiet, calm, as he gathered up handfuls of his shirt and held on tight, a boat unmoored and lost at sea just searching for an anchor. 

“Please, I’ve. I’ve no right to ask.” An all over shiver, like a string plucked, and it resonated from Jon and into Martin.

“You can.” He waited for him, giving him the space to speak without feeling any more pressure. 

“Please, just a, a moment more?” He hugged him and Jon clutched back, burying his face into his shoulder to block out all else.

“Oh, Jon. Of course. All the time you need.”


End file.
